


Angel Of The Morning

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Category: Deadpool (2016), Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Crack, F/M, Flirting, Innuendo, Superheroes, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 05:26:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8132147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: The message on the psychic paper was short and to the point: I’m looking for the best doctor in the universe – dickwads and time wasters need not apply. Not their usual kind of thing, not that anything they really did counted as usual.But a summons is a summons... although much to Clara and the Doctor's consternation, they discover that the red-suited sender is just as blunt and foul-mouthed in person.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I have no idea how this came about. I think it was a slightly-inebriated brainwave I had following finals: what if Deadpool, the world's biggest flirt, was put up against Twelve and Clara? It's been sat in my "to upload" folder ever since.
> 
> Purely ridiculous crack. Read at your peril.

“Why are we going _there_?” Clara asked with a degree of irritation, as the Doctor checked the coordinates for the thousandth time, stepping around the console to avoid her wrath. “You said we’d go someplace fun, by which I assumed a _planet._ Not Earth, and certainly not Earth in _my own century._ ” 

“Got a message,” the Doctor explained curtly, chucking the psychic paper in her general direction and busying himself with the circuits. “Traced it back here: New York City, 2016. Not bad for navigation, eh? Certainly improving.” 

Clara gazed down at the paper, reading the words with bemused stupefaction. “Urm,” she began uncertainly, wondering how to phrase her question. “How often do you get messages that read _I’m looking for the best doctor in the universe – dickwads and time wasters need not apply_? And how often do you actually reply to them?” 

“Language,” the Time Lord chided, circling the console and applying the handbrake with a smug, self-satisfied air. “I mean, I _am_ the best Doctor in the universe, so it would be rude not to respond.” 

“The best Doctor in the universe? As opposed to?” Clara teased, and he glared across the room at her, unwilling to say the word that he knew she was angling for him to speak aloud. 

“A… dickwad,” he said distastefully after a moment’s hesitation. “Or a time waster, definitely not one of those. Goes against my basic programming. So what do you say to going and finding our foul-mouthed little friend and seeing what they need me for?” 

“Seriously?” Clara looked at him incredulously. “You get a message – no, a demand, complete with expletive – and just decide to go swanning off to find the sender? What if their bite is worse than their bark?”

“Why would there be biting?” the Doctor frowned at her in confusion, crossing the room to the doors and giving her a playful grin. “Look, you’re intrigued, don’t lie. New York, the Big Apple… I bet you’ve never been.” 

“I haven’t, but that’s not the… oh for god sake, fine,” she snapped as he stepped outside ahead of her, and promptly found himself facing down the barrel of an assault rifle, which was immediately cocked.

“Who the shit are you, grandpa?” came an improbably chipper voice, and the Doctor looked the would-be assailant up and down, taking in the red suit and the twin katanas with a swooping sense of foreboding, which may also have been linked to the gun being pointed in his general direction. “I mean, seriously, I knew Al was jerking my chain about that dust she was blowing up her nose. I must be tripping _balls_ right now for this shit to be going down in my bedroom…” 

Clara stepped outside, and the red-garbed figure fell abruptly silent as it he surveyed her, lowering the gun and using it as an arm-rest in an altogether too casual manner. “Hi,” she began, relentless positivity and British politeness taking over her impulses. “We… got your message. At least I assume it was you, unless his navigation-” 

“Holy _shit_ ,” the figure said with appreciative awe. “Whatever was in that dust, I want a fuckload more. Hot British chicks with foxy accents? Maybe God has finally looked down on my beautiful, well-hung ass and decided to grant me some of my prayers. Although seriously, he should lay off on the angel-cum-magician guy, because that’s not conducive to the middle part of the previous phrase. I don’t get off to old dudes.”

“We…” Clara began, unsure which of his words to focus on first. “We’re kinda a package deal.” 

“Oh, I get it,” the figure quipped. “Well, an audience totally isn’t my style, but when faced with making sweet whoopie with a heaven-sent piece of British ass, I think getting cheered on by a grandpa could probably be overlooked in favour of, well… banging you.” 

“She’s not an angel,” the Doctor managed in a slightly strangled tone, his face a lurid shade of maroon. “And nor am I.” 

“I’ll say,” the figure said snidely, and Clara was certain that under the mask he was smirking. “Lemme guess: all heaven on top and then underneath she’s a stone-cold chick who could tie you up and ride you until you sell your soul to Lucifer himself? Wait, are _you_ Satan? Because I kinda expected horns, you know. On your part. I didn’t expect Satan and his side chick to make me so… horn _y._ ” 

Clara’s hand connected with the side of his face sharply, and he let out – to her consternation – a loud, sexual moan that seemed disproportionate to the punishment she had just metered out. 

“Definitely hell underneath, wow…” the figure whooped softly in triumph. “Satan, can I borrow your lady? Just for an hour or so?” 

“That long?” Clara asked, raising an eyebrow at him in a silent challenge. “Most men I know with egos like yours don’t last longer than the five seconds it takes to realise that _actual women_ are not, in fact, blow up dolls, and the subsequent shame brings things to a swift conclusion.”

“Ooh, ouch,” the masked individual said sardonically, with little conviction. “I am a _red hot lover._ But my ego is totally appreciating the stroking, maybe you could stroke something else?” 

Clara smiled sweetly, before her knee connected sharply with his groin, and he doubled over in pain, groaning loudly as he did so. 

“Clara!” the Doctor said, scandalised, and she shrugged slightly, rolling her eyes at the levels of melodrama unfolding before her. 

“I don’t like guys like him,” she explained simply, looking at him with pity. “They piss me off.” 

“Language,” the Doctor said weakly, somewhat nervous of his companion’s wrath. “But your point stands.” 

Together, they looked down at the figure now laid on the floor, hands over his groin as he whimpered softly in muted agony. 

“Short chicks are always the worst,” the red-suited man concluded after a few moments. “Serious anger issues. But from the pain, you’re not a vision. Disappointing, but nice to know British chicks are just as good looking as they’re cracked up to be. What’s with the old guy? Is he your grandad?” 

“I’m the Doctor,” he interjected as politely as he was able to manage, trying to ignore the comments about Clara. “She’s Clara, since you didn’t ask.” 

“Doctor?” the figure said with confusion, looking between the two of them in a near-comedic manner. “Why do you have your own… oh my god.” 

“What?” Clara asked nervously, taking half a step towards the Doctor for reassurance, and readying herself to run. 

The figure’s demeanour changed abruptly, and with considerable gentleness he took her hand and asked: “Are you sick too?” 

“No,” Clara said apologetically, feeling abruptly guilty for the miscommunication, pulling her hand back. “He’s… It’s not that kind of thing.” 

“Oh,” the figure said with considerable relief, his previous bluster returning as he looked the Doctor up and down. “Well, is he at least a medical doctor?” 

“Nope, I’m just the Doctor,” the Time Lord explained simply, as though it were obvious. “An idiot with a box.”

“Doctor who?” 

“Just _the_ Doctor.” 

“Are you _her_ Doctor?” 

“I’m not anyone’s Doctor,” he said with exasperation, shoving his hands in his pockets and rolling his eyes. “You sent for me, didn’t you? A message came from these coordinates requesting – and I quote – _the best doctor in the universe._ ” 

“And that’s you?” the figure asked dubiously. “Cos don’t get me wrong, I’m sure you’re like, super old and wise, but right now you look kinda like the creepy magicians you get at kids’ parties. The kind that does things with balls of the not-fun variety.” 

“He’s… much more capable than he looks,” Clara offered, feeling the need to back up her friend. “Really. What’s your name?” 

The figure paused for a moment, as though considering his options. “Deadpool,” he said after a few seconds, before adding with some pomp: “ _the_ Deadpool.” 

“Dead- _what_?” the Doctor asked in bemusement, exchanging a look with Clara. “How can a pool be dead? A concrete noun can’t be a transitive state.” 

“It’s my anti-hero name,” Deadpool said resentfully, folding his arms defensively. “Anti-hero names don’t make sense.” 

“Anti-hero?” the Time Lord scoffed. “That’s just like superheroes… There’s no such thing. Nice outfit though, much better than Clark Kent’s.”

“Doctor, you _just_ said…” Clara began, but the Doctor gave her a frustrated look.

“Superheroes aren’t real, Clara. Clark Kent was a lost alien, some comic company got hold of the story and exposed him. He was a nice chap, I got him home in the end. Did me a bit of a favour a few years later.” The Doctor looked at Deadpool with suspicion. “Do _you_ know Clark Kent?” 

“Sorry, wrong universe,” Deadpool shrugged slightly ruefully. “Look, buddy, I’ve got a problem. A real ugly kinda problem, that I need someone to take a look at. You might not be a medical genius, but you’ve been to space – either that or you’re smoking some bad weed – so maybe you can go knock up a cure from some space douchebags.” 

“You’re not exactly entreating me to your cause,” the Doctor said drily. “Although I should mention that I can also go forward in time and meet some future… _douchebags,_ so maybe watch your mouth if you want me to contemplate providing aid.” 

“Ignore him,” Clara said as kindly as she could manage to Deadpool, given that she’d kneed him in the balls some moments prior. “What’s the issue?” 

“Well you see,” he began, in a somewhat more serious tone than before. “The problem is, I’ve got this girl, right? Vanessa. Gorgeous, fuckable, straight ten outta ten-”

“So why were you flirting with me?!” Clara interrupted, scowling at him furiously and being met with an irate sigh. 

“Because it’s a defence mechanism. Because when I get nervous, that’s what I do. Also, because you’re short but you’re hot. Nothing wrong with a little looking as long as I don’t touch, all’s fair in love and war. Only it’s not because love is a gigantic shitshow. Now, less interrupting, more listening. This girl, she’s a stone-cold fox. Only… well, I had a little problem, and now I’ve got a tiny vanity issue going on.” 

“Wait, did you call us here because of your…” Clara squinted at him suspiciously, appraising him. “Dick size?” 

“No, sweet cheeks. Trust me, no issues in that department. It’s more along the lines of… well, it’s best if I show you.” 

He reached behind his head and peeled off his mask, closing his eyes to avoid the horrified stares and shocked gasps he was by now accustomed to when people learned of his affliction. Finding the room oddly silent, he snapped his eyes open and took in Clara and the Doctor’s calm, composed expressions and suddenly sensed that they had – perhaps – seen far worse, and that they would not be judging his present appearance. 

“What happened?” Clara asked quietly. “… wait, you said ‘are you sick _too,’_ so…” 

Deadpool sighed sadly, all traces of his previous bluster gone from his demeanour. 

“Cancer. Metastasised, terminal. I was offered a solution but it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, and I ended up with this fugly mug. Indestructible, but unfuckable. Not to mention totally unlovable. Haven’t seen Vanessa in months.” His voice cracked as he looked up at the Doctor, praying for a solution, praying that there was something that this man – this curious, bizarre man – could do. 

“I’m sorry,” the Time Lord murmured, looking down at his feet sadly. “If it’s the serum I suspect… I can’t cure you. I’m sorry, I just… I can’t. Not without altering your DNA, and you wouldn’t be able to stand up to that.” 

“Stood up to it once…” Deadpool said hopefully, but the Doctor only shook his head sadly. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, looking genuinely contrite that he couldn’t offer assistance. “That was going the other way. Stripping you of that… you wouldn’t make it.” 

“Well,” Deadpool shrugged a little, turning away from them both to wipe away the tears that clouded his eyes. “Guess I should probably go back to hunting down that shit-dick Francis. Here I was hoping for an easy solution to my little love issue… I’ll go back to doing things the hard way. For Vanessa.” 

“’The course of true love never did run smooth,’” Clara quoted with a sad smile, feeling guilt threaten to consume her as she considered the conundrum at hand. “Is there anything else we could do for you?” 

“You could explain precisely how a fuck-off massive blue box appeared in my bedroom, and you two stepped out looking entirely un-flummoxed by the fact you were probably squidged in there real tight together, with you, good sir, all pressed up against that frankly quite remarkable rack.” Deadpool mused aloud, in a remarkable shift of mood, and Clara scowled at him. 

“Remember,” she said casually, examining her nails as she spoke. “That this rack is attached to the schoolteacher from Blackpool who kneed you in the balls.” 

“You make a good point,” Deadpool concurred thoughtfully. “But it _is_ a really excellent rack, to be fair.” 

“Watch it,” she cautioned, looking to the Doctor for permission to lead the self-proclaimed anti-hero aboard the TARDIS and instead finding his eyes fixed, curiously, on the top of her cleavage, which was exposed slightly by the cut of her blouse. “Hey!” 

“Sorry,” he said, his eyes snapping to the floor as he turned violently pink, guilty to have been caught in the act. “Urm. I. Yes. Box. Space-time box. After you.” 

Clara rolled her eyes and reached for Deadpool’s hand, pulling him inside and watching his face light up with wonder as he took in the interior. 

“It’s…” he looked around in awe, words momentarily failing him as he tried to comprehend what he was seeing. “It’s…” 

“Bigger on the inside, yes,” the Doctor said impatiently, crossing to the console and beginning to tinker with buttons to distract himself. “Surprise.” 

Deadpool looked to Clara through narrowed eyes, a smirk playing over his features. “Are _you_ bigger on the inside too?” 

She looked at him pityingly. “Wouldn’t _you_ like to know?” 

“Very much yes,” he said enthusiastically, nodding exuberantly, but Clara only laughed at his request, crossing to the console. “Damn it, I was close, wasn’t I?” 

“Not even a little bit.” She grinned at him anyway, spinning around to look at the monitor and then returning her gaze to him. “Wanna go someplace?” 

“Just the two of us, or creepy grandpa too?” 

“I mean in time. Or space.”

“Well, there’s a bar off an alleyway on Thirty-Seventh Street. Could we maybe head off that way? I could really use a Blowjob.”

“I beg your pardon?!” the Doctor spluttered, turning to look at the anti-hero incredulously. 

“It’s a drink,” he explained, holding up his hands in conciliatory manner to attempt to ward off some of the Time Lord’s wrath. “Although you never know, I might get real lucky. You could volunteer…” 

“I thought you said grandpas weren’t your type,” the Doctor said with surprising dryness, and Clara arched an eyebrow in his direction. “Or have you changed your mind?” 

“Well…” Deadpool smirked a little. “Let me grab some normal clothes real quick. Turning up at Sister Margaret’s like this might get me some unwanted attention.” 

“Sister… what?” Clara asked, wide-eyed with bafflement, as Deadpool stepped outside the TARDIS and unzipped his suit. 

“Sister Margaret’s – damn fucking spandex – School for – _fuck, my balls –_ Wayward Girls,” he explained from outside, as Clara met the Doctor’s eye and they exchanged a look. “We took over the premises and kept the name. It’s a little divey, but it’s still good.” 

“Oh no,” Clara said warningly, narrowing her eyes warily. “I am not going to a _dive bar._ ” 

“What’s a dive bar?” the Doctor asked quizzically, looking to her for clarification of the unknown phrase. 

“A… disreputable bar,” Clara explained reticently. “Like that one we went to in Space Glasgow, where they sold fifty types of whisky, and all of them were served in dirty glasses.”

“You’re coming with me to this – _motherfucker –_ bar if it kills me, space weirdos,” Deadpool appeared back inside the TARDIS, now clad in jeans and a dark jumper with the hoodie pulled low over his face. “Because frankly this is some next level weird shit, and when shit gets weird, get wasted. In your case, get wasted with a pretty girl and her grandpa. And besides, no one will kill you, because if they do, I kill them.” He paused for a moment, chewing on his lip as he tried to remember something, then added: “Oh, and for god sake, call me Wade. No point busting my secret identity out to the world, is there? I might get pity-laid, but I might also get pity-deaded.”

“Wade isn’t a name, it’s a verb,” the Doctor said pedantically, narrowing his eyes in Wade’s direction. “Was your mother very confused?”

“It’s most likely. She drank a lot of liquor, it’s a wonder I didn’t end up with Whisky Wilson as a name. She was big on alliteration and American spirits.”

The Doctor rolled his eyes without further comment, set their destination and then disengaged the handbrake, watching Wade’s eyes widen in excited apprehension as the time rotor began to rise and fall.

“Are you sure you’re not yanking my chain?” he asked nervously, and Clara laughed at his demeanour, recognising the uncertainty that she had once shown. 

“We’re very certain, we’ve done this before,” she assured him, as they landed and the Doctor put the handbrake back on firmly. “Come and see if you don’t believe us.” 

She stepped halfway outside and held out her hand, smiling slightly as Wade crossed the room and took it apprehensively, leading her outside into the dark alley that held the entrance to his favourite – albeit divey – bar. 

“Holy fucking shit,” he cursed, looking around at their change of location with amazement, whooping with success. “Fuck me, that is some next level impressive shit. I owe you both drinks. On me, all evening. Come on, space weirdos. Let’s go get fucked up.” 

“Clara,” the Doctor said warningly, putting her hand on her arm as Wade headed inside and giving her a cautionary glare. “I’ve got a bad vibe about this…” 

“You’ve always got a bad vibe,” she chastised, rolling her eyes impatiently at his reticence. “Come on, come and have fun like normal people do.”

“I’m not a normal person, and we’ve only just met the guy. He could be planning on murdering us in there and stealing the TARDIS…”

“Doctor. It’s a bar. I have been to lots of bars, and that is a real bar, and besides, we couldn’t even help the guy. I feel bad about that. Not to mention the fact he’s kind of a superhero, and how often can you say you’ve been to a bar with a superhero?” 

“ _Anti_ -hero.” The Doctor grumbled, but he let Clara take him by the hand and drag him inside, down a set of grubby steps and into the fetid interior of the bar, which fell into a silent, reverent hush when Clara stepped inside – not that she noticed. 

“Oh!” she exclaimed joyfully, inexplicably delighted by the filth and the squalor. “This is _just_ like my old students’ union!” She crossed the room, plonked herself down contentedly by Wade at the bar, and smiled winningly at the bartender. “White wine please.”

“This… this isn’t really a wine kinda establishment,” Wade said with a grimace. “It’s hard liquor or beer.”

“Well,” Clara said pensively, as normal chatter slowly resumed around her, and the Doctor slid into a seat beside her. “I guess it’ll have to be hard liquor.”

 

* * *

 

Clara wasn’t entirely sure how she came to be on a table, shirt unbuttoned to the waist, hips gyrating in time to a song she dimly recognised as _Slave 4 U._ She also wasn’t entirely sure why there were handfuls of dollar bills tucked into the waistband of her skirt or the straps of her bra, but as she cast her eye over to the bar she saw two faces she dimly recalled, and in search of some explanation of her… situation, she teetered over the edge of the table, landing in a stranger’s arms, slightly too drunk to notice his hands lingering on her arse for a moment longer than was appropriate. 

“I’ll take her,” said a vaguely familiar Scottish voice, and then there was the man – the old man, the one she knew she _should_ recall – at her side, taking her by the arm and tugging her insistently away. “Clara, c’mon.” 

“Who the fuck are you?” snarled the stranger, squaring up to the Doctor aggressively . “Her boyfriend?” 

“Yes, her boyfriend,” the Doctor lied with a sense of guilt. “And the angry-looking gentleman at the bar is her bodyguard, and I believe he’s packing what he termed a ‘fucking big handgun,’ so I strongly suggest letting the lady go.” 

“Doctor!” Clara remembered abruptly, shrieking with delight as he led her outside in search of sobriety. “My _Doctor._ The bestest Doctor in the whole wide woooooooorld. No, s’not right. Whole universe. Uuuuuuuuuniverse. S’a good word.” 

“You’re a mess,” the Doctor said sternly. “You need to lie down and sober the hell up.” 

“You know, she _really_ can’t take her liquor,” interjected a new voice. “I have the videographic evidence.” 

“You kept buying her the bloody stuff, so if you know what’s good for you, you’ll delete the goddamn video,” the Doctor threatened, his voice low and menacing as he propped Clara against the doors of the TARDIS, fumbling with the lock in the darkness. “Got it?” 

“Hey, easy dude, I’m kidding. She’ll be OK in the morning, mortals usually are. Either way, it was good to drink with you, even if you couldn’t fix my little problem,” Wade extended his hand to the Doctor, who shook it reluctantly. “If you ever need a favour, you know who to call, OK? I’ll come fuck shit up for you.” 

“Duly noted,” the Doctor replied distastefully, inclining his head to Wade in farewell as he heaved Clara inside and set her down in the reading chair. “Here we go. Oh, Clara, my Clara, you mess.” 

“Shu’up,” she slurred, and he crouched by her, brushing her hair back off her face tenderly, covertly checking her pulse under his hand. “Doctor.” 

She leant forward and planted a single, unanticipated kiss on his lips, taking his breath away as the taste and feel of her overwhelmed him. 

“Clara…” he stammered, after she had broken away some seconds later, and he had regained the use of most of his faculties. “What…”

“You’re such a nice man,” she said with a drunken grin. “ _Soooo_ nice. Taking me to meet a real supe’ero! What the fuck! You the _best,_ so that wa’ a thank’oo kiss.”

“Clara,” he reiterated patiently. “You’re drunk, darling. Very much drunk.”

“I know,” she said contentedly, beaming at him with radiant, inexplicable joy. “I’m pissed as a noot. _Newt_. Pissed s’newt.”

“I think it’s time to sleep,” he said quietly, pressing his fingertips to her temples and watching as she fell back into the chair, fast asleep, before tucking a blanket tenderly around her legs. “Goodnight, Clara.”

 

* * *

 

In the morning, she awoke in the bedroom of her own flat, a glass of water and a packet of paracetamol on the bedside table. Her phone pinged and she groaned, reaching for it with one hand as she sat up, the other clasped to her head in an attempt to stave off her hangover through physical contact.

 _Morning,_ she read off the screen blearily. _No more superheroes for you._  

 _Shut up,_ she typed back slowly. _We ARE superheroes._


End file.
